


TMA/The Good Place shorts

by pensivetense (Styre)



Category: The Good Place (TV), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Don’t know how much/when I’ll add to this so updating the tags as I go, Elias is Michael, F/F, F/M, Jon is Janet, M/M, Peter is Shawn, Salesa is Mindy, just some shorts that have been bouncing around in my brain, the Assistants are the neighbourhood inhabitants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27701068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Styre/pseuds/pensivetense
Summary: Couldn’t get this concept out of my brain. Just short scenes with no update schedule or plot.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 24
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

“...and finally, I’m going to have to request the full-time, exclusive use of a Jonathan.”

Peter frowned. “A Bad Place Archive? You don’t think it would be better to use a Good Place one? More... authentic, or something?”

Elias scowled and pinched the bridge of his nose. This particular human suit suited him, Peter thought—it made him constantly look like an tiny, angry cat. Better than when he’d been James, and all tall, salt-and-pepper dignity.

“You think I didn’t try? I went through three Gertrudes before I gave up. The last one tried to set me and all of my domain plans on fire. Do you know how long I’ve been working on those plans, Peter?”

“Yes,” said Peter, because Elias never actually shut up about it. 

“So you understand.”

“I don’t, actually,” said Peter cheerfully. “I think that your hubris will be your downfall and your plan is doomed to failure, and furthermore that the system we have in place right now is perfectly fine.”

“Not all of us are happy to just toss a few people into an empty void and leave them there for a few bearimys. Don’t you have _any_ ambition?”

“None at all, as you well know.”

“Then you don’t mind if I—“

“ _Please_ , Elias. I’m not letting you win our bet that easily. Here. You can get a blank Archive from the storeroom.”

He signed a paper and handed it over. Elias skimmed it—a standard requisition order. Shame the Bad Place actually posted security on their warehouses; despite his natural (for a demon) love of paperwork, having to shuttle around these damned order forms every time he wanted to make even a tiny change began to grate. Still, it would be worth it. He could just imagine it—all of the drab torturescapes of the Bad Place replaced with subtle, distinct domains, each catering perfectly to their inhabitants’ deepest fears—and he, of course, the king. 

::

After the incident with the first Gertrude, Elias has sealed his office away from the rest of the Panopticon. After the incident with the second, he had relocated it wholesale into the blank plane he was going to build his ‘neighbourhood’ in. After the incident with the third... well, frankly he’d just given up. Still, as he cleared a space in the middle of the floor and wheeled the requisitioned Jonathan into it, he felt a thrill of excitement. Finally, _finally_ , after so long planning and plotting and pleading, he was about to realise his fondest ambition. 

He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and activated the Jonathan. 

Immediately, the Archive’s sweater-vest and skirt changed from plain white to a more suitable, drab green and khaki. His face twisted into a scowl. “And who are  _you_ ?” 

“Elias,” said Elias. “An Architect.”

“Hm. Who am I?”

“You’re a Jonathan,” said Elias. “A B— a  _Good_ _Place_ Archive.”

The frown receded a little, replaced with a critically appraising stare, as though Elias was something he had found stuck to the sole of his boot. Oh yes, he was perfect. 

“I suppose I work for you, then,” said the Jonathan at last, reluctantly. “Very well.” 

He looked around. “Is this your office?”

“Yours too, for the moment,” said Elias.

“A bit of a mess, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” sighed Elias. “That would be the Go— the Gertrude. Your... well, let’s call her your predecessor.”

“What did she do, let a dog loose in here? Hm. Well, if there’s nowhere else, I  suppose it will have to do.”

“Don’t worry,” said Elias, looking out at the blank plane beyond the window, “you’ll get used to it here, in the world that we will make.”


	2. Chapter 2

Martin Blackwood opened his eyes. 

The room he was in was bland in the way only a waiting room can be, despite apparently being in an old and beautiful building. The walls were old brickwork and accented with dark, aged wood polished to a mirror shine, but there were also a few potted office plants and those awful chairs that always show up in doctor’s offices, which are meant to be both comfortable and stain-proof and end up being neither. On the wall opposite him, in gold decal letters which sat strangely on the textured brick read the words:

**Welcome! Everything is Fine.**

Well, that was totally comforting and not at all foreboding. 

Wait, how did he get here? The last thing he remembered was... was what? It was strange; he didn’t feel like he’d _forgotten_ anything, exactly, but he couldn’t precisely place his last memory before opening his eyes a second ago. Reaching back, there was just the steady, boring blur of days spent muddling through the office job he’d lied his way into, and nights spent alone in his flat, watching television or poring over his poetry and having his calls ignored by his mum. But there was no definitive cutoff point where his memory ended—he couldn’t even have said what day it was supposed to be. 

And now he was here. Wherever ‘here’ was. He certainly had never been here before. But he didn’t really get a chance to collect himself further than this, because at that moment the large, ornate wooden door to his left swung open. The man who stepped out from behind it was sharp, officious, and made him feel instantly underdressed. 

“Mr. Blackwood?”

“Oh!” said Martin. “Yes, that’s, that’s me.”

“Excellent. Come in, please.”

The office was a great deal nicer than the waiting room—it had proper furniture, at least, and a tidy oak desk that looked like it was at least three times as old as old as Martin was, and some very well-appointed bookshelves full of what look to be properly leather-bound books. 

The grandiosity of it put Martin on edge. He found old buildings beautiful, poetic for their sense of lost history—but he mostly found them so in theory, or when they were abandoned or converted into public spaces. He was never comfortable in spaces like this, well-kept and elite and where he was acutely aware of just how much everything cost. He smoothed down his own sweater, washed a few too many times and started to wear around the edges, but he’d never look like he belonged somewhere like this. 

Furthermore, there was something about this—perhaps the way the sharp-looking man sat down across the wide oak desk from him—that made Martin feel uncomfortably as though he was in a job interview, or worse, in the principal’s office. 

“Please,” the man said, gesturing, “sit. Martin Blackwood, correct?”

The way he said it indicated that he knew already. Martin nodded anyway, and pulled out the wooden chair indicated. He winced a bit as the legs dragged loudly across the floor, and perched down on the edge of it, feeling suddenly as though he needed to take up as little space as possible. 

“Excellent. My name is Elias. I’m certain you have some questions for me.”

“Um, actually, I d—“

The man—Elias—held up his hand. 

“We’ll get to those in a moment.”

Martin frowned, wrong footed. “O...kay?”

Elias smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s simply a lot to explain, and I’d rather just get the... startling part out of the way. I’m sorry to inform you of this, but you, Martin, are dead.”

“Oh,” said Martin. It really did make a strange kind of sense. Honestly, he was surprised by just how _unsurprised_ he felt. 

“It was the worms, wasn’t it?” he asked.

“I—what?” For a moment Elias looked genuinely thrown. 

“Oh—huh, nevermind, then. How did I die?”

“Alone,” said Elias baldly. “But then again, doesn’t everyone? I can return your memories, of course, but people tend to find that... traumatic. It really doesn’t matter in the end. What matters is that now you, Martin Blackwood, are in the Good Place.”

“Oh,” said Martin. “I, uh... good?”

“You earned it,” said Elias. “Really, Martin, you ought to be proud of yourself. Only the _very_ best make it in, after all.”

::

He might be an immortal demon, but Elias was still a little bit nervous as he led his first human into his (now intimidatingly immaculate) office. The plan, oh, that he was certain of. But could he convincingly manage to pull off acting like a Good Place Architect long-term? He wasn’t precisely built for this. 

Then Martin Blackwood stepped into his office, wide-eyed and tense, and all of his apprehension vanished at once. The man’s fear as the story his spins begins to sink in is delicious. 

“...a famous poet, who spent his life and work advocating for the disenfranchised? Not to mention a Nobel Laureate twice over—really, Martin, you mustn’t sell yourself short.”

Elias smiled. “Besides, I know literally every speech ever given, and the one your mother made about you at your service brought a tear to _my_ eye. So few people make such an overwhelmingly positive impact with their lives. You truly are special.”

To his credit, Martin was a fantastic liar. Not an ounce of shock showed on his face—if anything, slipping into his role seemed to settle him into a kind of blank calm. 

“Right,” was all he said. 

::

The neighbourhood seemed to be patterned after a little village, of the kind that reminded Martin of driving through Scotland when he’d been younger. All old stone and white-washed buildings, greenery that was made for mist and rain and seemed oversaturated in the sun, as though it would stain his fingers if he touched it. 

There was an air of timelessness to it, worn to a pleasant coziness without seeming dilapidated. There was a shoreline to his right, and he could hear the gentle crash of waves and smell salt. It was beautiful. It felt like the sting of a thousand happy memories Martin never had. He felt acutely out-of-place—which, he supposed, he was. 

“Um,” he said, “Elias?”

“Yes?”

“What’s with, um, all of the cameras?”

“Ah,” said the Architect, smiling his benignly inhuman smile. “Well, that’s a feature of this neighbourhood. Eternity is a long time; we’ve found that residents tend to enjoy having documentation of all of their best memories. And, of course, it helps me to keep an eye on things. Make sure the neighbourhood’s running smoothly, as it were.”

“And what if we don’t want to be... I mean, isn’t that a bit invasive? What about, oh, privacy?”

“Martin,” said Elias, “there’s no need for secrecy. After all, this is basically Heaven. What could anyone here possibly have to hide?”

One of the cameras, as if in response, bobbed towards him with the sound of a focusing lens. 

“Of course,” said Martin, trying to keep his voice as light as possible. He gave it a wave. He was certain he could hear it zoom ever-so-slightly on the tremor in his hand. 

“Now then,” said Elias, “ _that_ is your home.”

Martin followed the line of his finger up into the hills on the far side of the village. It took him a moment to register what he saw—a manor-house, monumental and windswept like something off of the cover of a classic novel. Exactly like that, he realised. Any thought that he might simply have been mistaken for someone else, perhaps someone who shared a name, were shaken loose in that moment. This place was made for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh it’s been a while  
> Whoops?  
> Sorry to everyone who commented and I didn’t respond yet! I’ve been off of the archive for a bit—I’ll respond soon I promise! Just know that I really appreciate all of you!


End file.
